


La Gloria

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, Light Bondage, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Extremely old kink meme fill reposted here for archival purposes)<br/>For the prompt - Conquistador!Spain molests Oblivious!France or Resisting!France. This is rather out of character and also sacrilegious, but that was how things worked out for the prompt. Setting is mid 16th century Spain, during the height of the New World conquest and Spanish Inquisition, I place their ages at pre-beard France, so 14?</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Gloria

Even though he was in truth the elder, at that time France looks younger, all soft pale skin and golden curls, like a spoiled younger son who has never worked an honest day’s work before. Spain feels older, as bloodshed tends to make one feel, and God knows he has shed enough blood to age a century. But he does not dwell on these thoughts as he makes his way towards that familiar figure leaning on the balcony, shoes making no sound on the soft carpets.

It was but the work of a moment to quickly wrap his arms about the other’s waist so that France squirms and laughs in surprise, happy to be caught. He twists around to throw his arms about Spain’s shoulders, blue eyes sparkling in the bright sunlight.

“Espagne, you have done well for your king and queen, I see. I am almost jealous.” France tilts his head so that the ribbon of his hat swings into his face. Unable to resist that smile, Spain kisses him firmly, eager to taste the sophistication and old-world decadence that had been lacking in the charms of his latest conquests.

“Have you come to celebrate with me, brother?” Spain asks, caressing the delicate jaw with his thumb, admiring the white skin, the faintest tracery of blue veins underneath that makes his own tan seem all the darker by comparison.

France chuckles, a surprisingly low sound to come from someone so effeminate. “Oh, have you finally thought to invite me? Then I suppose it would be rude to refuse, hmmm?” He shifts slightly, his back against the balcony’s railing as Spain presses even closer, hands running up France’s sides almost possessively.

“I did miss you, Francia, believe it or not,” Spain murmurs in response, and grins when he manages to get a leg in between the other’s hips, though France gives no indication that he notices. “The savages provide some entertainment, but are hardly good conversationalists, you must know.”

There is the faintest flicker of something angry and bitter in those cobalt eyes, but Spain thinks he might have been mistaken, for France is now smiling sweetly, babbling cheerfully about how wonderful it is that their relationship is on the mend after that dreadful little tussle over Italy.

Spain indulges him for a few minutes, nuzzling at the other’s hair, fingers working at loosening the belt so he can more easily slip his hands underneath the tunic. 

Politely, France tries to push Spain’s warm wandering hands away, because he is playing the part of a diplomat today and not a whore, though everyone thinks of him as the latter, knows him as such. But Spain is the stronger of the two now, bolstered by the strength of the armada, purse constantly fattened with blood-red gold, even as it spills out to pay for the lavishness of the courts, the debts of the wars. He easily breaks out of France’s grip and continues his play uninhibited, as France leans back and suddenly remembers he is trapped beside a balcony high above the ground. Now he jerks forward, panicked.

“Ah, Espagne… please excuse me,” he murmurs, his breath catching in his throat as Spain ruts against him shamelessly. “I must… I-I have other business to attend to.” He does not, but there is no mistaking that he has lost control here, and it unsettles him, to see his lazy younger brother the leading power, and he merely caught in the undertow.

Spain makes a sound of annoyance, grabbing France’s wrists and holding him there. The innocent maiden act had been amusing, but now the urgent heat in his groin demands attention. “Pray tell, sweet brother, what other business do you have here but to pleasure me?” he whispers darkly, almost a hiss, and France flinches, visibly so, which only stirs the lust in his veins. Really, Spain has to laugh because the other nation has no real answer, and the thrill of conquest, of forcing another proud nation to their knees, that overpowers any sense of civilization that might have returned with his homecoming.

France is pushed inexorably to the ground by strong hands on his shoulders, and he kneels on the marble floor in surrender, though he keeps his eyes locked on the other’s dark green glare. 

“Who do you pray to, dear Francia?” Spain asks, changing the subject suddenly.

“Why… the same as you.”

“Of course, of course. You are a good Catholic, are you not?”

An apprehensive smile, for France can not deny the existence of the Huguenots within his borders.

Spain returns the smile easily, ruthlessly. “I would like you to pray for my continued success, and give thanks for my mercy. It would make me very happy, to know I have your blessings.”

And the worst part is that he can not refuse something so benign, so minor.

Closing his eyes, France bows his head, trembling hands brought up to count paternosters along the dark rosary beads. Spain observes him as carefully as any inquisitor, eyes lingering along the curve of the other’s lips as they move in silent prayer.

When France finishes the decade, he looks up to see Spain reach over and knock his hat off, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He refrains from a whimper.

He is not stupid. He knows what is expected of him.

The only other sound in the room is that of the rosary sliding out of France’s grip, amethyst and silver beads clicking on the floor. Spain grins as he pulls his brother closer by his hair, the other hand forcing his chin upward so their eyes must meet, blue against green. Scowling, France glances away, he hates having to do this, he hates it more than anything else, and Spain knows that and does not care.

“Do not keep me waiting. I do not want to punish you.”

One last glare, then France fumbles at the waistband of his breeches, unlacing them hurriedly, wanting to get this over with. But just because he hates this act does not mean he has no skill, and he touches Spain’s aching length with light brushes of his fingers and lips, licks the feverish skin with long scandalously slow strokes until Spain is panting and flushed, gripping the balcony with one hand to keep his balance. He has to bite his lip to keep from moaning as he pushes his cock past swollen petal-pink lips, into that hot wetness, all the way until he hits resistance, and France attempts to pull back, choking slightly. After a moment’s hesitation, France moves, sucking all the while, adjusting instinctively to provide the most gratification, and Spain loosens his grip on the golden locks as a sort of reward for his behaving so well.

Eventually, Spain can no longer watch himself fuck France’s mouth, out in full sight of the blinding disk in the sky, and he throws his head back, hips jerking and trembling, growling in triumph as he comes. France swallows it all, sucks him until he is dry and soft again, and when he is finished, he looks up, eyes almost sapphire dark.

“Bien,” Spain murmurs, patting France’s hair, too stupid and dazed from his orgasm to do much else. Smiling, France makes a purring sound and nuzzles Spain’s abdomen with the side of his face, so like a cat, and Spain laughs.

“Isn’t it time for siesta? Yes, I think so…” He does not wait for an answer, but pulls France to his feet, and France stares back as if confused. Smirking, Spain undoes the clasp of his brother’s violet cloak and lets it fall to the floor, and France nods and slowly disrobes. First his belt, then his tunic, then the linen chemise and velvet breeches, everything, until he is completely naked. He does not even look over at the other nation, who had been stripping as well, and instead glides over to the sumptuous bed, pulling back the heavy scarlet and gold-threaded coverlet, sitting upon the mattress as regally as a queen.

France feels Spain’s body heat long before Spain touches him, and manages to not cringe as his brother drapes the ice-cold rosary around his neck, the silver crucifix burning his chest as if he were an unholy demon. Perhaps he is one, France thinks cynically, for his prayers have done him no good after all.

He is gently pushed onto his back, onto downy pillows that threaten to suffocate an unwary intruder. Spain tells him he looks so pretty, and he wants to fuck him like that. 

 

Of course, France is pretty, that is the nature of the land that birthed him, fertile and desirable ever since they could remember. And Spain has always liked how France wears his hair long, adores his dainty features and flawless skin, because it makes him look so much younger than he really is, like a virgin undefiled even though that is patently untrue, and oh, Spain has to collect his thoughts now and focus before he forgets his original intentions.

France shuts his eyes rather than look at his brother, so that he does not have to face those brilliant eyes smoldering with blackest lust, and underneath that, an insatiable need to dominate and prove his as yet unmatched strength. Braces himself as a callused hand grabs both of his wrists in one unyielding grasp and pulls them over his head. Out of nowhere, metal clanks dully, and France feels something cold and hard snap around his left wrist, then his right. He is compelled to look, and unsurprised, he pulls at the manacles to test their range, causing the chains to jangle merrily.

Spain laughs, delighted at the sound, and while he straddles France’s torso, he leans over to open a drawer beside the bed. Rummaging around, he occasionally picks out an item and shows it to France, who shivers partly from dread and partly from anticipation.

“The humans never last too long, and they usually bleed out and die… but we are different from them,” Spain whispers, casting a fond glance towards his latest captive as he holds up another object for inspection. “You can play with me for as long as I want, si?” 

France swallows and nods, attention focused on the device flashing between the other nation’s fingers, trying to figure out where it might go.

Truly, Spain has devised a wide variety of interesting instruments while serving his queen’s mission to rid the land of heretics, although these particular devices had not been invented to extract confession of a religious nature. Some made of iron and steel, some wood and leather, all well-oiled and lovingly cleaned. But Spain determines that none of them are quite suited for his beautiful older brother, who only ever deserves the best things in life.

Spain sets down a rather spiky object with a sigh - perhaps another time, he decides - and bends over to kiss France’s mouth, tasting the salty flavor of his own essence lingering there. He moves lower, biting ivory skin hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises, sucking and licking wherever, nosing the rosary out of the way as needed. Then Spain flicks his tongue over a pale nipple, smiling at the sound of a sharp intake of breath and another clatter of the chains, and so he spends some time sucking greedily at the sensitive flesh there until France is writhing underneath him, panting.

It would not be much longer, France thinks, succumbing willingly as Spain mouths his arousal with languid, lazy motions, as if his mind is elsewhere. Suddenly the warm mouth leaves, and he almost whimpers at the loss of contact. Blinking wearily, France feels something soft and thin wrap around the base of his straining cock, and watches in fascination while Spain ties off the bow with a flourish, silky black material nestled almost too snugly against his skin.

“You will not come until I let you, brother,” and France laughs somewhat painfully, despite his powerless position.

“Why, take care of yourself first, dear Espagne,” he replies, breathless, arrogant, “I will be good and wait, I promise.”

Spain nods eagerly, slicking one hand and sliding it over his already dripping cock while he considers the tantalizing sight before him with an adorable frown of concentration. Spreading his legs further, France sighs in relief as he feels fingers work him loose, tries to relax for his sibling, so that it would not hurt either of them overly so. He is rewarded with a satisfied groan as Spain pushes into him smoothly, filling him completely, and he lifts his hips just a little as the other hooks an arm around his knee, seeks the perfect angle and then begins pounding into him without mercy. Dieu, how he wishes his hands are free, he wants to touch him so badly, but he must make do by wrapping his legs around his waist, matching his rhythm to that of his brother’s.

They fuck like that, like beasts in the field, ecstatic moans and hissed curses staining the air, faintly accompanied by the ringing of steel, the barely audible clacking of beads. But it hurts, being constrained in such a way, and France can not quite keep the tears out of his eyes despite the pleasure. Spain thrusts into him one last time, practically shouting as he comes again, and France arcs up to receive him, all of him, shaking violently as Spain rides out his orgasm to the end.

Falling onto one elbow, Spain gasps for air, brown strands of hair stuck to his forehead from the perspiration. Once he recovers his breath and pulls out, he gives France a crooked smirk and gently strokes his disheveled golden hair with a free hand.

“Forgive me for doubting your faith and loyalty,” Spain murmurs huskily, pressing his mouth to pale eyelashes and tasting the unshed tears there. “You have been good to me, brother, despite our past. I will not forget that.”

France almost sobs when he feels the pressure around his cock lighten, the ribbon sliding away, Spain’s moist lips suckling at the head. It is only a few moments more before he comes as well, releasing into that welcoming mouth. His brother hums blissfully as he swallows, and finally frees the softening length with a lewd sound. 

A sigh of contentment, and lean muscular arms wrap around his torso in a parody of a lover’s embrace. France, still dizzy from lack of oxygen, makes a quiet high-pitched whine as the thrum of pleasure fades from his overwrought nerves and the pain starts its inevitable return.

“Sometimes… I wish we can be like this forever,” Spain whispers dreamily, eyes distant, gazing at a horizon no one else could see. “I want to keep you here with me always. We would be so happy together, like in the old days.”

But France knows the old days were not that happy, and only Spain’s cheerful ignorance makes them seem so peaceful. He sighs again and closes his eyes as Spain unlocks the cuffs and kisses the raw broken skin of his wrists tenderly, tongue smooth and comfortingly warm. Their sweaty bodies press close, as if they were twins still in the womb, and eventually Spain’s breathing evens out and he drifts off to slumber. 

France rests his chin on top of the dark tousled hair and idly wonders what had changed between the two of them, for the balance of the world has shifted underneath their feet over these past decades. But even if France does not have nearly as much strength, he desires power and glory as well. He has tasted of ambition now, even sweeter and more addicting than Spain himself, and that maddening desire paints his dreams in shades of red and gold. 

Blood-red and sun-gold, power and glory. Forever and ever.


End file.
